Beyond
by derangedfangirl
Summary: Post- movie, The Astronaut's Wife with Johnny Depp. What if a part of Spencer remained alive through the possession? Completely rewritten. I don't own a thing.
1. Chapter 1

Beyond despair.

Spencer's body twitched violently, sending the formerly stagnant water that encompassed most of his prone form rippling.

He had so many times in the past months wondered why he wasn't dead... why there was still a piece of him alive. Agonized, knowing there was too little of him left to control his body, but that he was somehow alive nonetheless. He could remember... everything that had happened, and that was infinitely worse- he didn't have the shield, the protection that amnesia would have afforded him; instead he unerringly recalled every motion, every thought, like some sort of demented, gruesome nightmare. In those months, he was floating in a sea of wrongness. It was like dreaming or watching everything happen in some sort nightmarish, drug induced haze- a bad trip- having no control over anything. Was that one of the most damaging parts? Perhaps. For a man such as Spencer, who valued control above nearly all else, this was unforgivable. He wasn't precisely real, and yet… he was aware.

Of course he had tried to fight his way out. To overcome through sheer will and stubbornness. Mind over matter, right? It's what his father had always said. "Chin up, son. Be a man. Never let them see you sweat, and by God, never let them see you cry. Mind over matter, boy."

But how does that apply when there's no _matter _to contend with?

It didn't matter. He fought anyway, futile as his analytical mind recognized it to be, to override the being inhabiting his body.

Tears. 

Spencer Armacost was a man who did not cry. Ever. Sons of a wealthy businessman in Kentucky played football and baseball and did what was expected of the eldest son. He was Wally Cleaver. He had mastered the art of stoicism and the learned of the necessity of masks almost before he could walk... and yet in the past months he had been in constant despair. No- despair wasn't the right word. He was in Hell. Spencer was, of course, saddened when he saw his friend die before the eyes that were no longer his, but that was manageable; friends had died before, they knew the risks going in. Chin up, old boy, toast the dead and move on.

Natalie's death, her suicide, had been a bit harder to take- none of this could even remotely be laid at her feet in terms of fault. Horrifying.

But his breaking point, the time at which he wanted nothing more than to claw his own eyes out, to destroy _everything_ within reach, was as he was forced to witness the rape of his wife, the woman he loved more than he'd ever considered loving his own life. The fire of the molten anger and guilt and grief and _pain _consumed him totally. Because he was able to do nothing- _NOTHING-_ about it. Jillian, his life and beauty, thought her attacker was him, and there was nothing to disprove it. Because, the truth was, it _was_ him, even if it wasn't. Spencer could have lived with the thought that he had attacked her if only- if only- it had inspired anger in her. He would have welcomed the anger and the accusations!

But, alas, she had staunchly withered with her pain and self doubt. He had never wanted anything more than he wanted to reach out and comfort her, assure her, now. To tell her that she HAD TO FIGHT IT. Even if he had failed, she wouldn't.

He couldn't, though. All he could do was watch, in the most disgusting sort of helplessness, as his Jill sank into a gnawing depression, as she began to wonder about her own mental health.

It occurred to Spencer, then, that Jillian had not been the only rape victim that night.

His heart shattered as he heard her distant, hollow voice break as she told the only one she trusted, Sherman Reese, her story of the princess. He had never witnessed such a painful emptiness.

And he was floating in the dark again, observing, watching.

As the thing in his body killed his friend...

Then murdered his sister in law…

His soul was drowning, now, in that vast sea of hatred and evil.

Distantly, he watched it hit her, a bruise blooming like the most delicate of spring irises on her cheekbone… throw her down the stairs... Inhabit her body... 

Spencer moaned, the guttural keen of a dying animal, into the water and slowly, slowly, turned over in the pool that was his kitchen, face to the light, and promptly returned to the darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

Ch.2

Frank Utreguit had only recently started his job at the hospital morgue, examining bodies and determining cause of death... the usual. It hadn't necessarily occurred to him, though, that his general skittishness could make being a mortician something less than a dream job. He still wasn't used to being in constant contact with corpses, was beginning to think he never would, and that simple fact amused his co-workers immensely.

"Hey Frank!"  
Frank jumped; paling slightly, at the unexpected stridency of a man's voice cutting neatly through the quiet stillness of his workspace.

Frank, frankly, was not really a people person.The EMT rolled his eyes impatiently at Frank's stricken expression, and continued wheeling the gurney into the room. "It's Spencer Armacost." He deadpanned, gesturing at the humanoid-shaped black bag in front of him.

"Really? That…" Frank racked his brain a moment, trying to recall the context in which he'd heard the name before, as he shuffled over to the EMT. "Astronaut guy? Caused a stir up a year or so ago, right?" Frank asked, slightly curious, and rather proud of himself for remembering.

"Yeah…" Theo (the EMT) replied absently, gazing at the bag. His eyes snapped up to Frank's, suddenly sharp. "Listen, we've got the initial reports written up- looks like he electrocuted himself." 

Frank nodded noncommittally as he unzipped the bag. The EMT continued, unfazed. "No pulse, pupil dilation..."

Spencer's finger twitched.

"Look! Look man! H-he's alive! I saw his f-finger move!" Frank stuttered, turning sheet white.

The other man raised his eyebrow and began to laugh, a jarring sound in the current environment.

"Frank, man... you've finally shot your bolt. They do that sometimes, especially in electrocution cases, remember?" he gestured vaguely. "Neurons still sending signals to the brain and… stuff."

Frank glanced around, trying to look anywhere but at the body he was supposed to be examining, and faked a laugh. It sounded hollow to his own ears, and he couldn't shake some lingering uneasiness. 

"You're right, I'm just... this room's… I think it's getting to me."

"Yeah. Ok." Theo was still looking at him worriedly, as though he might start barking and foaming at the mouth at any moment. "…anyway Utreguit, come on. Lunch break."

"What about...?" Frank jerked his head sharply towards the corpse.

Theo smiled wryly. "He's not going anywhere. Just lock it from the inside and bring the keys."

Frank nodded- he couldn't disagree with that logic, and, besides… he _was _hungry. "Okay."

The two men exited loudly, their voices carrying down the bright hallway.

Giving no more thought to the "dead" man inside.

Spencer's eyes cracked open blearily. He lifted his right arm as if unsure that it was his, and tears prickled at his eyes as he marveled at the appendage. He gingerly swung his legs over side the gurney, wincing at the dull burn of metaphorical needles piercing him, knowing that they'd soon lengthen, sharpen, and wider, transforming into massive daggers that would plunge mercilessly into his flesh. His feet twitched slightly at the slickness of the cold hospital tile assaulting his toes. 

'One foot... then the other' he coaxed his body through the every-day motions, wavering and dizzy- unused to being able to physically _feel _after all those months in a veritable vacuum. He concentrated on maneuvering over the table and the clear plastic bag containing the things he'd had on him when he "died". He winced involuntarily at the wetness of his shirt, pants, and shoes and lifted out all but the shoes. He continued rooting through the bag... paused when his fingers came in contact with his wedding band and watch. The watch had been an anniversary gift from Jill before all... this had happened. He decided to leave most of the ID there, for if Jill (no, the alien) found that he was still alive, there would be no way for him to stop the plan he found that he knew by heart.

He grabbed the watch and the wallet out of the bag. He fumbled through it for a moment before grabbing only his NASA keycard and all the money that remained in it. Walking more easily now, he returned to Frank's desk and shrugged into the white lab coat that hung on the chair.

Slowly exiting the room, forcing down all the unusable emotions so he could concentrate on his escape, he stole a single glance back at the cold room.

Spencer stalked down the hallway leading away from the morgue cautiously, the distant hum of nameless voices becoming louder and less incomprehensible with each step he took. He paused until he could make out the vocal patterns of the speakers. That one- that one was horrifyingly familiar… and it was emanating from somewhere behind him. He sped up, heart beating wildly, and turned a sharp corner, pressed his body to the wall and listened keenly for a moment before seeing the glint of some very distinctive blonde hair.

Shit.

Spencer backed away from the sound. His hand scrabbled at the wall, and- There! He gripped the cold metal of a handle tightly and dove into the janitor's closet to his right. He pressed his ear to the door, uncomfortably aware that the band of light at the bottom had broken- someone was standing right outside the door.

Jillian's grief filled voice overwhelmed his senses; he had to mercilessly stifle the urge to throw himself out of the closet and hold her. Instead, he pressed his ear harder to the door, coldly trying to ignore that the woman he loved stood only outside the door sobbing helplessly.

The only thing holding him back was the knowledge that the woman he loved was not really there. The woman was not Jill; she (_it) _was simply an illusion. Not his Jill. He was concentrating so hard on his own thoughts, on controlling his body, that he almost missed her next words.

"He... he electrocuted himself?" She asked frank, tears streaming freely down her cheeks.

Frank nodded sympathetically and held his hands out in a 'hold on' motion.

"Wait here, Mrs. Armacost. I'll go get his things and his ashes."

"His _ashes_? W-why was he cremated?" She couldn't keep her voice from breaking.

Frank flinched slightly, but proceeded to lie smoothly, "Your husband's body was so damaged by the electricity that we had no choice. He was practically unrecognizable."

Jillian simply nodded slightly, taking deep, shuddering breaths.

In truth, Frank had merely pulled a drifter's body and cremated it in place of the body that was suddenly missing.

'It can't do any harm, right? I mean it's saving my ass, and dead is dead.' he reasoned with himself. His superior would never know, and what people didn't know couldn't hurt them.

Could it?

Jillian wrung the plastic bag tightly in her hands and grasped "Spencer's" ashes as if they were her very life force. Great heaving sobs racked her body and makeup ran down her face in floods of tears. Frank grimaced and gingerly patted her back, all the while murmuring the token pointless, soft reassurances. He drew his hand up and looked at his watch tensing slightly.

"I'm terribly sorry Mrs. Armacost, but I need to get back."

He gestured vaguely behind him as he turned to leave. Jillian simply continued staring at the wedding band, shaking and sobbing as Frank rounded a corner. She stood there seemingly immobile with grief until she could no longer hear his crisp footsteps in the corridor.

"Finally..." she muttered, rolling her eyes and sounding slightly miffed. She straightened, mourning apparently forgotten, as she abruptly spun on her heal and walked calmly in the opposite direction.

Spencer listened, in awe of the entire exchange, ear pressed painfully to the thick wooden door. The distinctive clicking of expensive heels on linoleum floor seemed undeniably ominous as she passed his closet.

'Jillian hates wearing heels…' the thought drifted through his mind; his subconscious seemed unable to process anything else. For some reason, this struck him as unbearably funny, and a morbid grin ghosted across his face.

Once sure she was gone, he stood shakily, grasped the knob and turned. Quietly creeping out of his comfortably familiar, dark, hiding place, he attempted to look casual as he strode purposefully out of the building.

He blinked rapidly in the blinding sunlight.

'I need to stop the twin computers,' he mused. 'I need to save my wife. I need to save the world.'

'Piece of cake…' His sarcastic inner voice rolled non-existent eyes.

'right…'


End file.
